CHAPTER 13 #2
How hard could it be ?
She stacked a few pieces of wood on the rack and crumpled some newspaper underneath, like they did in the movies. She struck a match—she was a pro at lighting her father’s cigarettes—and watched as the paper ignited, the flames gradually taking shape.
Cuddling Poppy she sat on the couch, watching the fire burn and admiring her work. But moments later a cloud of smoke filled the room and fire alarms rang throughout the house.
“Oh my God!” She jumped to her feet, grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen, and waved it at the smoke alarm as if she were surrendering.
The smoke thickened, obscuring her view, so she opened the front door and let Poppy out. She hurried to the kitchen and grabbed her cell phone, but there was no signal. The landline! She picked up the receiver and dialed Clayton’s number, which was stuck to the fridge.
“Howdy,” he answered on the first ring.
“Clayton! I started a fire and there’s smoke in the house! The alarms are going off!”
“Did you open the flue?”
“The what?”
“The flue lets the smoke out.”
“I think you’re making that word up.”
“Be right there.”
A few minutes later Clayton’s truck rumbled up the driveway. The sun had barely risen, casting a pale golden light over the porch where Jamie stood, Poppy tucked against her chest.
She was coughing so hard she had to brace herself against the wooden railing, her knuckles white. Each breath sounded rough, strained, like it hurt to pull in air.
Clayton killed the engine before rolling down his window. “Jamie?” His voice cut through the quiet morning, sharp with worry .
She forced herself upright but another violent cough ripped through her, and Poppy let out a small, anxious whimper.
Clayton got out of his truck. “You sound like you’re about to hack up a lung.”
Jamie dragged in a shaky breath. “I’m fine.”
He gestured toward the thick, dark clouds pouring from the doorway. “Are you trying to burn my house down?”
“Who am I, Left Eye Lopes?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind.”
Clayton entered his house. “Good Lord, woman. Ain’t you ever built a fire before?”
“No,” she replied, trailing him inside. “But I’ve seen it done in the movies.”
He laughed softly. “That was rhetorical.”
Clayton knelt and used the long iron poker to reach the flames. Then he pulled down a latch, allowing the smoke to escape into the chimney. They were saved.
“There.” He stood and shook his head. “You need to open the flue before you light a fire.”
“Who knew?”
“Everyone but you.” He reached up and pressed the button on the smoke detector, silencing the beeping.
“Sorry,” she said. “We don’t have wood-burning fireplaces in Vegas.”
“Don’t worry about it, darlin’.” Clayton picked up the poetry book from the couch, turning it over in his hands. “Lord Byron, huh? He’s my favorite romantic poet.”
“I hope you don’t mind. I found it on your desk. ”
“Not at all.” He flipped through the pages, his fingers lingering over the worn edges. “Do you have a favorite?”
“‘When We Two Parted,’” she admitted, not mentioning it was the only one she’d read.
He hesitated for a second before saying, “Mine too.”
Jamie studied him, curiosity stirring. “Does it remind you of Tammy?” she asked, hoping he’d finally reveal something about his past. He knew plenty about her and Derrick, yet he kept his own history locked up tight.
“No.” He shook his head, his voice quieter now. “Someone else.”
Before she could press further he disappeared down the hall and returned moments later, holding a book. “Here,” he said, passing it to her.
“What’s this?” The cover read battle cry of freedom .
“You asked about the Mason-Dixon,” he said, tipping his chin toward the book. “This here’s about the Civil War.”
“Thanks. I’ll read it if I get bored.” She fanned the pages. “I mean, when I get bored.”
After Clayton left, Jamie opened the book. She wanted him to recommend more reads, but she didn’t want him to think she was an idiot. She already felt foolish for not knowing how to light a fire. Surprisingly he hadn’t given her a hard time about it—she would have roasted him to a crisp.
When the landline rang Jamie hesitated. Should she answer? There was no answering machine—it just kept ringing.
With a sigh she picked up. No caller ID. She took the chance anyway. “Hello?”
“James?” Ruth’s voice was tentative on the other end.
Jamie tightened her grip on the receiver. “I’m still mad at you. ”
“I know,” Ruth said, sounding small. “I messed up. If you want to fire me, I’ll understand.”
Jamie exhaled sharply. “If anyone should be fired, it’s Shorty—for making you keep it from me.”
“I was trying to protect you,” Ruth’s voice wavered.
Jamie closed her eyes, the weight of five years of friendship pressing on her. “I know,” she said, softening. “Let’s forget it, okay?”
“Okay, but I have to tell you something . . .”
“Now what?”
“You’re receiving more threats, and Shorty wants to bring in the authorities.”
Jamie let out a sigh. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“They’re from Memphis Girl, warning you to stay away from Clayton.”
“That’s a little difficult with me staying here.”
“Please report any suspicious activity,” she said, concern evident in her voice. Her assistant worried more than her parents ever had, and it was comforting to have someone around who cared. “How are you holding up?”
“I’m mortified, Ruth.” Jamie dropped her head into her hands, elbows resting on the kitchen island. “Derrick’s tangled up with a teenager he swore he couldn’t stand.”
“The media’s turning against him,” Ruth said.
“I’m not surprised.” Jamie exhaled. “A famous actor and a kid? Of course people are questioning their power imbalance. I doubt he even considered the consequences. He hates bad press.”
“Serves him right,” Ruth said .
Jamie blinked. Ruth? Miss sunshine-and-rainbows? The woman apologized to empty chairs, for God’s sake. Jamie had enough bite for both of them, but that edge in Ruth’s voice caught her off guard.
“It sure does,” she said, recovering.
“What’s on your agenda today?” Ruth asked, shifting the subject.
Jamie landed her gaze on Clayton’s acoustic guitar, propped in the corner. “I guess I’ll write some music while I’m stuck out here. Not much else to do except stare at cows.”
“Everything’s better with cows around.”
“What?”
“Oh.” Ruth laughed. “It’s a Corb Lund song.”
Jamie sighed. Of course, it was—some country singer, no doubt.
“Depending on how long I’m out here I might need a satellite phone.”
“I’m on it!”
After spending a few hours lost in a book Jamie turned her focus to songwriting.
The words came fast—sharper than she expected.
She called it “When We Two Parted,” borrowing from Lord Byron, knowing titles couldn’t be copyrighted.
She’d never written a breakup song but this one poured out of her, raw and unfiltered.
Derrick had lied to her and she wanted the world to know it.
A knock sounded at the door and Poppy barked, but she remained on the couch.
“Anyone home?” Clayton called out.
Jamie approached the front door, annoyed with him for dropping by unannounced, even though it was his house.
“Ever thought about calling first?” she asked in a sarcastic tone.
Clayton pointed to the landline—the receiver was off the hook.
“Oh, I didn’t want to be disturbed.” She motioned toward his guitar.
“I hope you don’t mind. I got inspired to write. ”
“A breakup will do that.”
“Yeah, whatever.” She shrugged. “Technically we were on a break, like Rachel and Ross.”
“Who?”
“Ugh.”
“Play me what you’ve got.”
“It’s not finished yet,” she said. “I’m working on the second verse.”
“Play it anyway.”
She sighed and picked up his guitar, her fingers instinctively finding the chords. The wood was warm, worn smooth from years of his touch. She shouldn’t be doing this. But the guitar was already in her hands, so she played the first verse.
“Here, pass it to me.” He sat on the couch and tuned the guitar by ear, which it didn’t need. “Might sound better in a different key.” He strummed a G chord and began to sing.
“Hey, that’s my song!” she said, refusing to admit he was right. “We’re not co-writing, remember.”
He handed the guitar back to her. “Just trying to help.”
“Did you forget something?” she asked, sitting next to Poppy on the couch.
“No,” he replied. “Momma wants you to join us for supper.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes, supper.”
“Look at my hair.” Jamie pulled her messy ponytail tighter. “And I don’t have any clothes suitable for dinner.”
“Now, darlin’, it’s downright rude to turn down an invitation around here. We take hospitality mighty serious.”
She sank into the couch. “I don’t get along well with mothers.”
“What do you mean? ”
“Derrick’s mom hates me.” It wasn’t just a feeling—Mrs. Anderson made sure of it—the polite smiles that never reached her eyes, the clipped responses, the way she made her presence feel like an intrusion.
Derrick had grown up in privilege—quiet streets, elite schools, parents with Ivy League degrees—while she came from a world of late rent notices and empty promises.
Her father had been more of a rumor than a presence, and her mother, a showgirl with a dazzling smile and a restless heart, had left when she was too young to understand why.
“Momma will love you.”
“Did she like Tammy?”
“She wasn’t her biggest fan,” Clayton said, flashing a sheepish grin. “You can meet my girls, but you may need to watch your language.”
She scrunched her face, clearly offended. “I don’t curse in front of children.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll have Ruth bring some clothes.”
“You two made up?”
She nodded. “I told her it was Shorty’s fault.”
“That’s real generous of you,” he drawled, his smile downright wicked. “Why don’t you invite her along? The more the merrier.”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. By the way, a certain doctor is smitten with her.”
“Nolan?” she gasped. “Ruth can’t stop talking about him.”